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They’re racing like whippets, they’re running like hares,
Pray, what is the point of it all?
There’s twenty-two fellas in shirts, shorts and socks,
All frantically chasing a ball.
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There’s three points to make, the Drop to escape,
Such stuff as would norm’lly enthral.
But something’s not right, the match fails to ignite,
‘Cos there’s not one supporter at all.
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You can hear a pin drop, can pick up sneeze or cough,
Catch the players cry “Ouch!” when they fall.
There’s both linesmen and ref, the two gaffers and staff,
But not one fan, young, old, large or small.
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There’s no songs, there’s no chants, there’s no oohs, there’s no ahs,
The stadium’s void and forlorn.
No-one sighs, gasps or cheers, great lack of atmosphere,
It’s just forty-four boots and a ball.
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There’s no roar from the North, no response from the South,
Just a funereal hush with the Crowd all locked out –
‘Cos some fans misbehaved, we’ve been told: “Stay away,
We will not let you watch the football.”
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It could be exciting, intense, nail-biting,
But the spectacle’s starting to pall.
Three points to be won, relegation to shun,
Yet the whole thing’s just one great, big yawn.